


Bleeding Out

by venis_envy



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Dreamlike, Gen, M/M, Or not, Surreal, Winter, stiles has a pet tree
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-10
Updated: 2013-10-10
Packaged: 2017-12-29 01:27:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/999238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/venis_envy/pseuds/venis_envy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everything floats, barely out of reach, like a child's balloon drifting on the wind. Stiles can't seem to reach out and grab hold of his thoughts long enough to process them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bleeding Out

**Author's Note:**

> Proceed with caution. Warnings at the end of the work, if you'd like to skip on down to that and have a looksie.

There's a tree outside Stiles' bedroom window. He used to climb it when he was little. Dangle from the outstretched branches and pretend ants below were tiny people hundreds of feet down.

During the summer months, it's full and green, the branches barely visible through its thick canopy of leaves. Stiles doesn't remember the last time he saw it that way. It seems to be stuck in a perpetual state of winter: barren and gray.

oOo

Stiles hasn't talked to his dad in what feels like weeks. They pass each other in the hall, Stiles on his way to bed, his dad headed out for work. Sometimes Stiles offers a "hello" or "good night". Occasionally his dad will murmur something unintelligible. He wonders how long they'll go on this way.

oOo

He's always cold. Stiles buries himself in piles of blankets at night, burrows in to fend off the chill, but it never helps. He wakes to a perfectly made bed with no signs of a struggle for heat, and he wonders why, even in a sleep-heavy state, he wouldn't instinctively cover himself. He dreams of warmth, of being twisted up in his blankets and wishing the winter away, but he doesn't seem to ever actually try to cover himself.

He stares at the bed from across the room in puzzlement, runs a hand over the back of his neck and feels sticky moisture covering his fingers. He pulls them away, gazes down at his hand and wonders at the blood that covers it.

oOo

Derek climbs in through his window, says nothing to Stiles as he curls up on the bed beside him, hiding his face in Stiles' pillow and Stiles can hear him breathing in deeply, inhaling his scent.

He looks more forlorn than Stiles ever remembers seeing him, but he doesn't say why, so Stiles just holds him there, curls his arm over Derek and presses his ear to his chest, listening to the steady thrum of his heart.

He's allowed to do this now. He doesn't know what changed between them or why Derek doesn't push him away, but he doesn't.

oOo

The tree is still bare, even though the sun seems to be lingering in the sky longer in an attempt to warm the air. Stiles thinks if he goes out there, if he touches it, it would still feel cold to him. It looks cold.

He forgets about his idea as he reaches the front door, distracted by something on the coffee table: a newspaper clipping he can't read. The words all seem to smudge together, so he sets it down and heads back upstairs, the tree outside all but forgotten.

oOo

It's July. Stiles isn't sure how he knows this, but it is. Some part of his consciousness tells him it would be even stranger for him _not_ to know. Why wouldn't he?

He watches out the window as his neighbors pack up their car for vacation, surfboards and luggage strapped to the top.

His tree still doesn't have a single leaf on it, and he fears it may be time to tell his dad it's died, have it cut down before the wind pushes it through his bedroom window.

He sighs and turns back toward his bed, startled to see Lydia sitting there. She's wringing her hands in her lap, staring down at them like her life depends on it.

"Hey," Stiles says, approaching her tentatively. "I didn't hear you come in."

"I should have known," she says, overlapping the end of his sentence like the words are forcing their way out. She starts to rock slightly, fat tears rolling down her cheeks, and Stiles is frozen in terror. He has no idea how to comfort her, or what it is she needs comforting from.

"I should have known," she continues in a hushed whisper. "I should have _seen_..."

"Seen what?" Stiles asks, taking another step closer.

"How long will it take before I know what I'm doing with this?" She sobs, choking on the words, still rocking, still staring down at her hands. "How long until I see these things _before_ they happen?"

Stiles doesn't need her to explain further. It's obvious what this is about. He takes a seat next to her.

"What happened? Who died, Lydia?" He wants his tone to be comforting, reassuring, but it's almost frantic.

"I'm so sorry," she says. "God, Stiles, I'm so sorry."

She leaves the room without explanation. Stiles stares after her until he feels a wet trickle down the side of his neck. He clamps his hand over it, pulls it away. It's covered in blood again.

oOo

He's pushing his bedroom door open when he sees it again, that newspaper clipping from the coffee table. It's taped to the outside of his door now, and Stiles' mind barely has a split second to register his picture on it before it all smears together into an illegible mess of ink and lines.

oOo

"What the fuck is going on?" Stiles demands when he sees Derek again.

Derek brushes by him, eyes glossy and red-rimmed. He drops down into Stiles' desk chair, runs a hand down his face, then pulls the keyboard out.

Stiles can't see what Derek is typing into the search engine, can't see the screen at all, in fact. He flinches when Derek growls in frustration and slams a fist into the keyboard.

"Easy, asshole. Not everyone has a disposable income."

Derek ignores him, spins the chair around, gets up out of it and, for the first time in Stiles' recent memory, pulls open his bedroom door. He stops when he sees the paper flutter in the current, plucks it off the door, clutches it in his hand.

Stiles is so fucking confused he can't even find words to express it.

He steps over to Derek, looks down at the paper in his hand.

The words on the newspaper clipping are clear now, steadied somehow by Derek's contact with it.

Stiles' back hits the wall, eyes wide with horror and mouth hanging open in a soundless shout.

Without a word, Derek smooths the creases out of the paper and puts it back in its place on the door.

oOo

Everything floats, barely out of reach, like a child's balloon drifting on the wind. Stiles can't seem to reach out and grab hold of his thoughts long enough to process them.

He's leaning out his open window, reaching for the tree that's just inches from his outstretched fingers. He doesn't know why, but he thinks if he could just touch it, the world would make sense again. This strange dreamlike state he's been a prisoner of would melt away into reality.

He can't reach it, though. Stiles bangs his fist against the windowsill, and the panes of glass rattle. Nothing makes sense.

He feels it this time, not just a wet trickle, but a searing agony, a pain like fire that spreads from the side of his neck all the way down his arm.

Stiles clamps his hand over the spot, the contact bringing a flash of memory like a strobe in his thoughts: broken glass, arms caging him in from behind, sharp teeth sinking into his skin, the paper in Derek's hand, an obituary clipped out of a newspaper. Stiles sees his face in the picture again, perfect clarity in his mind's eye.

He pulls his hand away and drops to his knees, unable to make sense of any of it.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Please note the "Author Chose Not to Use Archive Warnings" tag.
> 
> I have a strange and probably unhealthy obsession with All Things Dylan, which, by extension, includes Stiles. I don't want him dead. I don't like that at all. This was in my head, so I chose to let it out. It may not end there.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [the soft stars that shine at night](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1388905) by [seraphina_snape](https://archiveofourown.org/users/seraphina_snape/pseuds/seraphina_snape)




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